Bloodline
by Compulsive Writer
Summary: Part One of Trigun Destinies. Twenty years have passed since her family came to New Hope. Now, alone in a world with a past she doesn't understand, Karma Saverem sets out on a quest across the Sands of Time. M for violence, language, and adult situations.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

_1_

San Alamos was a quiet little town on the westernmost edge of the charted territories. Beyond the border lay only desert, a vast and barren terrain where nothingness reigned, according to legend. The morning sun rose brilliantly against the eastern horizon, casting a pale pink and orange glow on the desert floor. The air was still cool after the night's chill, but that would soon change, after the desert had a chance to bake beneath the twin suns' merciless heat.

A lone woman stood alone at the edge of town, peering out over the desert, hands on her hips. The wind whipped the purple cape she wore back and off her shoulders as the dust of the desert swirled in a massive vortex about her tall, slender frame. Her face was shrouded almost completely by a white mask, save for her eyes, shielded by a pair of black goggles. Her skintight jumpsuit was white, broken at her waist by a golden belt, an empty holster at her left hip, and a black case to her right. Her hair, long and golden, spilled below her purple fedora, and clashed brilliantly against the flowing cape. Her hands were the only place on her entire body where flesh was visible, with only a simple band of white gold on the middle finger of her left hand.

As she stood there, the young woman lifted the flap of the case on her right hip up and pulled out her binoculars. Placing the tool to her eyes, she peered out over the desert once more, using her middle finger to adjust the focus several times as she scanned the horizon. The inspection turned up precisely what she had expected: there was nothing out there. At least not where she could see it.

She returned the binoculars to the case and snapped the flap into place.

Several moments later, the woman spun on her heel and stalked back into town. The dirt road was empty, the buildings old and weathered, and it seemed the whole town was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. It was early enough that the town businesses—the bakery, a small general store with a meager selection, and the Rocky Top Saloon and Inn—had yet to opened their doors for the day. The whole town totaled less than two hundred people, and existed only because a wealthy businessman had moved his family out here to get away from the crime-ridden world that existed to the east, in the major cities of Gunsmoke. That had been about forty-six years ago.

Somehow, the man had managed to build a life out here, dug a deep and plentiful well with enough water to last half a century, invited a small caravan of settlers to join him, and thus San Alamos was born. He even brought in a high profiled sheriff worth his weight in gold that helped to secure peace and happiness for all the town's citizens.

She moved through town as though she knew where she was going, though she hadn't really been here for more than a single night. Her arrival had coincided with twilight, and she'd been exhausted after traveling nearly three days without much more than a few hours rest. She ate a light meal at the Rocky Top and slept on a bench just outside the general store. Money was short and she couldn't squander a single double-dollar on the luxuries the inn offered. She knew she'd wake up long before the innkeeper showed, and she had her cape for warmth, so sleep hadn't come all that difficult. She'd gotten six hours, off and on through the night, occasionally stirring at nearby sounds of an unfamiliar world. Being a light sleeper had its advantages.

Her bike stood where she'd left it on the side of the general store, though she paused briefly in mid-step when she realized that she had a visitor. An adolescent boy, probably fourteen or fifteen, loomed wide-eyed over the handlebars as he inspected the vehicle, sleek, a mix of chrome and black steel with a red stripe along the side. Her rifle was still in place, she saw, and would come free for no one but herself, just as the bike would start for no one but her. Tipping her fedora slowly to one side, peering down the rim at the boy, she drew a slow breath, and finally started toward him.

"What are you doing?" Her voice had a sharp edge to it.

The boy froze, his hands having just come to rest on the stock of the rifle. His eyes lifted toward her, and he stumbled back when he saw her. She started toward him, fists clenched at her side. He was a scrawny kid, tall for his age, a head of thick red curls and an explosion of freckles. His lanky arms dropped to his side as he stared at her. He wore only a pair of overalls that were much too big for him. A red handkerchief drooped from the pocket at his chest.

A rush of anger forced her to start toward him—toward the bike actually, but he didn't know that. His eyes widened as he spun about and darted off down the alley between the general store and saloon, to a series of small houses beyond.

Her fingers caressed the soft leather of the seat as she shook her head in disgust. "Fucking kid," she muttered under her breath, and slipped the black case from her waist to return it to its place on her bike. The she scanned the main road again and saw someone else, a small woman in a light blue dress and a pale yellow bonnet, with long, strawberry blonde hair flowing radiantly out the back. She trudged slowly up the road, carting a heavy-looking box that obscured her line-of-sight, weaving unsteadily in both directions, occasionally shifting her weight to one foot, turning on her hip to get a look of the path just in front of her. The tall woman lifted one leg to straddle her bike as she watched.

The young lady with the box sidestepped a rut in the road, gave a little hop onto the wooden walk in front of the general store, and laid the box, with great effort, onto the bench there, where the woman had slept. She sifted through the pocket of her dress to find a ring of keys. As soon as the door was unlocked, she retrieved the box and backed into the doorway.

The woman on the bike sat there, staring off at the rising haze of a dust just outside of town. Her eyes located movement up the road and narrowed. Men, perhaps a dozen or so, approached on motorcycles, whooping and hollering. They didn't seem to be the social type. They wore a collection of long, leather trench coats, rounded helmets flared at the brim and a spike at the crown, dark goggles, and heavy boots. She could see easily that they were a group of misfits ranging from powerful bulk and scrawny weasels, and they were each armed to the teeth. Drawing a deep breath, she leaned forward on the handlebars and waited.

_2_

A year ago, Karma Saverem had left the only world she had ever known, taking with her a broken heart, fading memories, and a burning desire to find the missing pieces of a forgotten past. She had vacated paradise, New Hope, as it was called, only to discover a world of pain that existed far to the south. Her mother had said she had brought the family out here once or twice, when she was just a baby, but that was far too long ago for Karma to remember.

She scarcely remembered her father, and her brother had ventured out into the world when she was eight years old. All that she had, for the eleven years following, had been her mother and Auntie Mims, and even that life had been too good to last. Eighteen months ago, the plague had come, taking both of the older women from her, leaving her alone for the first time in her life. Many people had suffered from the disease. Her mother and Auntie Mims had been two of the six women taken, along with an aging man and a boy Karma's own age. Several children, too, had fallen ill and died during that dark period.

With the only family she had left suddenly gone, Karma felt there was nothing left for her in New Hope, that she was suddenly alone in a world where she didn't belong. So, determined to set forth on a new path, she moved south to see what she could see of a world she knew only from stories of the past.

The stories had been bad enough. What she learned of Gunsmoke firsthand only strengthened her resolve to continue on, to better herself in ways that no one else could. Often, during her childhood, her mother actually wept for the people. For so long, Karma had wondered why. She didn't wonder anymore. Still she refused to shed a single tear on these poor, broken fools.

The desolate landscape wrought poverty and distrust and worse things to its inhabitants. Crime had reigned supreme since the beginning, when Project SEEDS had crashed, a massive failure, a terrible waste of man, machine, and money, all at once. Man, machine, and money. Her mother had once said those were the three things that made the world tick, but a combination of which had created a massive, ticking time bomb. Karma had never understood until she'd set off on her own, but for the past year, everything her mother had told her of the outside had proven to be true.

Karma hated seeing people suffer, even if it was a result of their own stubborn ways.

_3_

The men halted in front of the old general store, dismounting their bikes in a flourish, still hooting triumphantly as they prepared to throw their weight about as though they owned the whole town. The woman on the bike narrowed her eyes and watched as they shuffled on into the building. Never once did they look her way, and she was positive that she had not been seen.

She noted that they were heavily armed, and not at all timid about brandishing their weapons as if they were royal scepters. The general store was no place for a lone woman to be when men like that came calling.

With a soft sigh, the woman rose from her bike, settled her fingers against the stock of her rifle, and easily pulled the weapon free.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

_1_

The general store was filled to the brim with filthy men.

Sweaty, vulgar, drunken men, covered in grime.

Ashley Hahl knew how to handle such men. Her big sister was a singer and dancer at the local saloon. Filthy men were in ample supply in any saloon, if the Rocky Top was any indication to the nature of saloons throughout Gunsmoke.

These men, however, were different from her sister's customers. These men moved as one, a pack of rabid hyenas on the verge of self-destruction. They dressed in ratty green uniforms, undoubtedly stolen, probably antiques from the home world, brought by Gunsmoke's original settlers a century and a half before. Most wore rounded helmets with a narrow spike at the top.

The mob tore through the general store precisely as they had come into town: drunken lunatics who believed they owned the world. They were men of varying sizes, short and tall, fat and muscular, bulky and lanky. None bothered to even look in her direction as they trudged through the aisles of her store, grabbing anything and everything in sight until they could carry no more. From the way they moved, Ashley doubted they had any intentions of paying for their selections.

One, a big man in a ten-gallon hat, stood, silhouetted in the front entrance, towered above the rest. A single step brought him out of the morning light. He was tall and heavyset, his shoulders twice as broad as most men. A scowling face, plump and callous, revealed dark intentions. His chin unshaven and his bushy mustache was white as cotton. He was actually rugged, handsome, which was more than she could say for the goons surrounding him. He wore a grim expression as his gaze stole silently about the store. He looked to be about seventy years old, though he was built like a man thirty years younger. Ashley wondered why his mood was so vastly different from his men. If indeed he was their leader.

Ashley thought well enough to wait behind the counter, close to the register, where she could see the whole store. Her father had warned her to stay away from strange men that might come into the store. Serve and observe at the same time, he'd once said. If anything got at all iffy, get out. The back door to the store was off to the right, at the end of the counter, only a single thought and few paces away. If she had to, she could make a run for it.

A slender weasel of a man crept toward the counter, his crooked nose wrinkling here and there as his beady, little eyes darted about the room. Soon, he lay a slender hand on the counter, the tip of his tongue whittling out of the corner of his mouth as the rose slightly in a sly smirk.

Ashley almost smiled for him, but she couldn't. Her concern had started to grow into apprehension.

His eyes found the jars of candy. The smirk grew as he bared his teeth, stained almost black with tobacco juice. His hand went slowly to the jar as Ashley watched him. He pulled off the lid and stuck a hand in, taking a fistful of lemon drops.

"It's a double-dime a dozen," she said, forcing her sweet smile for him.

"Cuff it, Red," he spat, and tossed a few drops into his mouth. "I'll take what I want, if that's quite all right with you." Ashley's face flushed as her smile vanished. Now, not only did she know these men did not intend to pay her, she was frightened as well. The Weasel grunted and tossed another drop into his mouth. "Not bad, Red. Now…where's the licorice?"

Her eyes slid to another jar on the other side of the register. He followed her gaze and grinned his maniacal grin. She pushed the jar toward the edge of the counter. "It's three double-cents a piece," she said quietly.

The Weasel—she had already started to think of him as "The Weasel"—fixed her with a sly smile as he lifted the jar off the counter and pulled the lid off. "Tell ya what, Red. How 'bout ya put 'er on my tab?" He reached into the jar and pulled out a big handful.

Stuffing the candy into his mouth, his dark glare stole quickly about the store. Finally, his eyes came to the glass case in the counter to his right. Biting his lower lip, he inched closer to the case. His eyes widened, and she could swear that he was drooling at what he saw.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. _Oh, dear God…_ She stood in stone-cold fear as he lifted the weapon high over his head and brought the handle down as though it were a hammer. The glass shattered upon impact. Every head in the building turned suddenly to the clamor. Ashley didn't dare move as she watched the man's hand start for the weapon that caught his fancy. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Already his companions were coming forward. Some sets of eyes had landed on her. A single bead of sweat dribbled slowly down her temple.

They moved in waves, three to four at a time, sliding through the aisles toward her. Ashley's eyes searched for an escape, and fell on the back door. Her breath caught at what she saw. One of the men had found his way to the door and slid behind the counter.

"Hey, chica," he said, voice low and eyes narrowed as he fixed her with an intense stare. "Come on oveh heh and lemme get 'a good look at ya."

Ashley froze. The man was short, with bulging biceps, a skull and crossbones tattooed on his left shoulder, and a cobra on the right. He wore an eyepatch over his right eye, with a brutal, white scar on the right side of his face, from beneath the patch to the edge of his unshaven jaw. His sun-darkened skin was covered in sand. His dusty uniform clung loosely to his muscular frame. He was armed to the teeth, a Tommy gun in one arm, barrel pointed to the ceiling, and a sawed-off shotgun in the other, aimed directly at her chest.

"What'sa matteh, chica? Ain't neveh seen a man with guns befoh?"

Ashley swallowed. Things were getting worse by the moment, and now there was no escape rout. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and watched him nervously. "Well, no…" She swallowed and fought to maintain her composure. "Is there anything I can do to help you gentlemen out? I mean, you must 'a been traveling a good long time. You must be terribly hungry."

He slid his tongue slowly across his yellow teeth and along his upper lip. "You can say that again, chica." He took a step closer, sliding his eyes along the length of her. Ashley shuddered at the look on his face. "Wiggle yeh bottom for me, chica. Just a li'l taste, if I might."

He poked her with the end of the shotgun. Ashley brought her hand about to slap the gun away. Angry, he brought the Tommy gun down on her shoulder, hard. Pain shot through her arm; tears stung her eyes as she backed away. A hand gripped her wrist and spun her about.

The first man was leaning against the counter, waving the weapon he'd stolen in front of her face. He smirked up at her with his repulsive smile. "Bullets," he said.

"I'm out," she said in a weak voice.

"Bullshit!" he sneered, wrenching her forward by her wrist. The pain of it brought a yelp of surprise. "Where are they!"

Without warning, the front door of the general store wrenched open, the slender silhouette of a tall woman filling the doorway, a dark shape flapping in the wind behind her. Ashley gaped in shock as the woman held up a long stick and placed it to her shoulder. It took a moment for the realization to sink in. She was holding a rifle.

The strange woman in the pulled the bolt back and took a moment to tip the fedora on her head back and peer about the room. The shadow cast by her silhouette made it impossible to see her eyes, but the long, lush mane that spilled away from the hat and cascaded over her shoulders in golden waves. Ashley blinked and tried to clear her head.

Just what was it she was seeing?

"I hear you wanted a bullet," the woman said in a silky-smooth voice. She brought the weapon up and squeezed the trigger. Immediately the man let out a yelp of pain and collapsed to the ground. One leg thrashed about wildly as he clutched the knee of his other. Leaning over the counter, Ashley could see blood seeping through his fingers. For the longest moment, the only sound in the in the whole store was the sound of screaming. Ashley stiffened at the sound of the bolt being ripped back off the gun, flinging away the spent cartridge, before the woman pushed it back into place. Slowly she brought the weapon around, waiting.

All at once, men were drawing weapons. Ashley dropped down below the counter.

_Bang!_ Another scream. The bolt was pulled and pushed back into place almost instantly. _Bang!_ Again, and _Bang!_ After the woman's fourth shot, realization seemed to click into the minds of the biker mob, and they filled the air with hot lead.

Ashley trembled in place, refusing to move, to make a sound. She doubted she would be heard anyway, considering the terrible noises that had erupted just on the other side of the counter. She prayed for it to end, longed for finality. She knew she should have stayed in bed…

A hand skirted her shoulder. Then it cupped over her mouth and wrenched her head back violently. The stench of hot breath, accompanied by a spray of spittle, wafted into her face. "Don't move," a voice hissed. She felt a blade resting against her cheek, and knew without a doubt that the man who held her was not bluffing.

A firefight drowned out all other sounds as they sat there, him at her back, holding her to himself with a knife right next to her face.

She could only count the seconds, and pray to the Lord above that her time had not yet come.

There was simply far too much to live for.

_2_

Karma Saverem was untouchable.

The moment she emptied the last of the bullets from her rifle, she dropped the weapon, stopped skidding to the side to avoid return fire, and darted forward. With a flick of her wrist, two long blades, daggers that she had hidden in the sleeves of her jumpsuit, sprang free of the fabric. She clenched the hilts of each weapon and darted forward.

Her blades were sharp, and flesh was abundant. She knew how to cut flesh, knew where to cut flesh to immobilize. Where to cut for a killer blow. Most important, in a room filled with gun-toting drunks, she knew how to disarm. Just the right slash on the side of someone's hand could sever the flexor and render a finger or thumb useless.

Karma was a blur, a white shadow amongst a pack of stumbling, panicking brutes. In a world of chaos, she was order. Amongst trembling fools, she was a steady hand. Men fell to the floor in writhing, screaming, heaps, clutching their blood-slick hands and fingers, or wounds in the upper arms where she had severed muscle tissues, and occasionally the tendons in their wrists and along the elbow. Several times, when she dropped to the floor to avoid bullets that whisked by just overhead, she thought enough to slice her blades through the ankles of her enemy. They dropped to the ground like sacks of grain.

The screams of the fallen filled the general store.

She peered about as she came to her feet. A quick count assured her that ten of the bikers were down. She turned to the door just in time to see two scramble out into the street toward their bikes, screaming at one another to get out of the way, each striving against the odds to be the first to evade the devil-woman who had struck down so many of their comrades.

That accounted for twelve of them.

She started toward the counter, kicking a gun clear of one of the fallen bikers as she peered over the counter. A gunshot came at her face; she tilted her head to one side, the bullet so close she felt the heat of it as it brushed just past her ear. She could see three wide eyes peering up at her. The man with the eyepatch still clung tightly to the pretty young thing with long, strawberry-blonde hair. The gleaming blade of a switchblade was pressed against the smooth flesh of her left cheek. Her eyes shown with fear, both at the uncertainty of the strange woman standing over her, and the man clinging to her with a knife. If there was anything Karma had grown to understand since her mother's death, it was fear.

Karma moved like a wisp of smoke in the darkness. The man clinging to the girl released her with a blood-chilling scream. The knife clattered to the floor as streams of blood pulsed from fingers, nearly completely severed from his hand, a diagonal cut just above the first knuckle of his middle and ring fingers.

Returning her knives to the sheaths hidden in her sleeves, Karma reached down to take the girl's hand. Terrified, the young woman gripped her forearm; with a powerful heave, Karma pulled her to her feet, wrapped an arm about her waist to pull her up and over the counter, and made a beeline for the door. She stopped just long enough lean over and scoop her rifle in her free hand.

Once outside, Karma plopped the girl onto her feet. "Get home. And send help."

"Help…?"

"_Go!_" Karma was certainly in no mood for questions right now.

Already, as the slender young woman bolted down the street, Karma was pulling a seven-shot magazine from her belt. A brief scan of the town about her revealed that she and the woman she had just saved were the only visible souls on the street. Karma drew a slow breath as slid the magazine into place on her rifle, and then pulled the bolt free to slide a single cartridge into place.

Behind her, someone stumbled out onto the wooden walk in front of the general store. Karma spun about and took aim. One of the bikers, bleeding from a deep slash on his left arm, which hung limp at his side, leaned against the doorframe. He held up his right hand, showing he was unarmed, and slid to a seat there in the doorway.

She could remember taking him out. He'd held a switchblade, standing back away from the counter. He hadn't exactly been prepared to strike, but she couldn't let him come after her when turned her back on him. She'd sliced the back of his thumb he'd used to hold his weapon, and disarmed him. He didn't look like the others. He was a handsome man, young. Probably about her own age. He really didn't look like a battle-hardened thug, like so many of his comrades. His black hair was long in the front and combed back out of his face.

Karma knew she couldn't allow herself to show compassion. Compassion would only show weakness, and weakness could tempt confidence in her enemy. With that in mind, she planted the heel of her boot into his shoulder, pinning him back against the doorframe.

"Name?" she demanded.

No response. She pressed her heel deeper into his flesh, against the bone. He winced, but held in his scream.

"Name!"

"Bowen," he gasped. She eased the pressure, but only a little. "Jay Bowen. Of the Matadors."

Karma blinked in surprise. "Matadors?" She started to pull her boot away, but thought better of it. "Who do you work for?" This time, she thrust her heel in as she asked the question.

His scream echoed through the streets. "The Watchman!"

After she had removed her boot, Karma pulled off her fedora and brought her masked face to within inches of Bowen's. His eyes were wide as he stared back at her. She knew she must be intimidating. He couldn't see her expression at all, as she wore dark goggles over her eyes, and a mask that conformed perfectly to the contours of her face. Not to mention the fact that she had just incapacitated ten of his comrades, not to mention himself. She supposed she didn't blame him for being scared shitless.

In silence, she watched him, trembling beneath her hateful glare. She found herself wondering if it seemed more like cold calculation to him. After all, he couldn't see her expression; she was wearing a mask.

Karma rose to her full height. Again, she peered both ways along the empty street. She studied the dirt road until her eyes came to the mass of bikes that sat near the general store.

Three of the motorcycles were gone.

She'd seen two escape. Ten other men lay bleeding inside.

Thirteen of fourteen accounted for. The Watchman, maybe?

Where was lucky number fourteen?

_3_

Eric the Watchman lit a cigar and watched the target from the window of a building across the street. A small smirk touched the big man's lips. He brought his arm up and ran a powerful hand through his thick, white curls.

She stood over the rookie. Doc Alias, they called him. Not even a rookie, really. Just a punk from a few towns back who caught a ride with the most feared gang of the western territories. The Watchman saw a lot of potential in the lad. If only there was time. But there never was time. Not a single rookie recruited over the past year had made it through a vigorous initiation…primarily because there was not time to prepare one properly.

Done on the fly, initiation meant death for a rookie. Most times, anyway.

But, the question remained: who was this masked blonde? Judging from her slender, curvaceous frame, and the golden waves flowing from beneath her purple fedora and clashing brilliantly with her purple cape, Eric thought she must be quite beautiful. But, was she _truly _the target? Not telling, really. Nobody with the Matadors had a clue as to the origins of this stranger, the stranger he had followed from the city of December since she had been discovered.

Already a legend in her own right, the Phantom Mistress, as she was called, had arrived seemingly out of nowhere. If this wasn't who he was looking for, she was still worth a look.

The Watchman lifted a comm-link to his mouth. "Watchman to Dark Horse. I have a piece of information I was hoping you might find interesting."

_4_

"Hold still! How do you expect me to patch you up if you keep squirming around like that?" Doctor Hank Finney gave his patient's shoulder a squeeze, pressing the severed flesh together as he formulated a plan of attack. The man gave a yelp of pain despite the morphine running through his system and tried to twitch away. Because he was drugged, not to mention his injuries, Hank was too strong for him.

It had been a long time since any real excitement had come to the small town of San Alamos. He didn't recognize these men, the Matadors, they called themselves. A traveling gang, probably, searching for hidden wealth in his peaceful, desert town. Amazing, the young doctor thought, that anyone could take down so many men, spill so much blood, and yet not bring finality to a single life. There had been no deaths, and now, with all of the life-threatening injuries meticulously treated, the worst of the danger had passed. For these men. If the woman in white chose to let them live.

But why not kill them in the battle, he decided, only to kill them after they were already down. No, whoever she was, she had no intentions of killing these men. They were just fodder left in her path. The sheriff would take care of them. Whoever the woman in white happened to be, she was no executioner. Not that Doc Hank Finney could see.

This was perhaps the most interesting thing he had experienced in eighteen years. By far more blood than he'd seen in his entire life. Oh, there'd been the occasional accident. He'd also been there for every San Alamos birth in the past twenty years. Gunshot wounds, knife wounds, or bloody noses were all that uncommon back at the Rocky Top. But he'd never had to deal with more than two or three patients at a time.

The woman, whoever she was…incredible! Hank had to grin when he thought about her. She wasn't exactly small, but slender, with a curvy, six-foot-two-inch frame, with long blonde hair, a mysterious and beautiful figure all at once. Who was the woman beyond the disguise, he wondered in silence. In all his twenty-five years, he'd never seen anything quite like her.

"Well, Doc?"

Hank cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Standing there in denim jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, pale blue with thin, violet lines running vertical in the fabric, and a leather vest. The Sheriff—Ray Bolenski, dubbed the fastest gun west of December—had his arms crossed, peering about the stretchers lined up outside the general store. Several large trucks were waiting in the road to load up the injured and hall them down to Town Hall, the largest building in San Alamos. Hank's office was there.

"Took care of the worst here. Just a few more abrasions to patch up. A heck of a lot of bumps and bruises, but nothing life-threatening." He grabbed a sterilized needle and started knitting flesh to flesh. His patient let out a pitiful cry, but his restraints held him down. "It'll be all right, son. Just relax." Hank peered up to Ray with a tight smile. "Little lady knew what she was doing, all right."

Ray nodded. "Yeah." He wiped his wet brow and peered up to the steadily rising suns. Hank mused about his friend's decade-long career. Even though the day had only just begun, so much had already occurred. The incident eighteen years ago had resulted in several deaths before the battle itself had drifted away from the town and into the desert. More than any other time since long before he had even taken the badge of office.

"I've never seen such skill," Hank continued as he stitched his patient together. "She knew right where to cause the most amount of pain with the least amount of damage. But she was brutal too. Anyone who might have been a threat the moment she turned her back…" He shook his head and gave a low whistle through his teeth. "Flat out crippled them on the spot."

"I want to talk to her. Where did they take her?"

"Foster's place," Hank replied, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder to the house behind the general store. Ray bit his lower lip, and then nodded. He was hesitant to head up there, and Hank knew why. After his affair with Tina, Joseph Foster's daughter, and the granddaughter of the man who had built San Alamos from the ground up nearly half a century ago, his relationship with the Foster family had evaporated.

Hank had seen the disappointment in the sheriff's eyes from the very beginning. He'd been only the fourth sheriff to support San Alamos in its near fifty-year history, and since he was a boy he'd enjoyed the friendship of Joseph, his wife Shauna, and their children for as long as he could remember. A forbidden love that had blossomed out of uncontrollable passion had ended the relationship.

Joseph had explained it all to Hank Finney in the simplest of terms: "Tina is my daughter, the daughter of Shauna Peirce-Foster. The girl deserves only the best in life, and I intend to see that she gets just that. The Peirce-Foster bloodline mustn't be tainted by the seed of that second-rate, ingrate."

Hank was a doctor. A damn good doctor, too. And he highly doubted even he was good enough for 'Daddy's Little Girl.' More than once, he'd told Ray the same thing.

If his friend heard a word of it at all, he gave no indication.

"I need to pay our guest a little visit," he grumbled, and started off up the rocky hillside to the old house overlooking the town. For a time, Hank watched him go, only to turn back to his work with a heavy sigh.

The kid he was sewing up—actually a young man of about sixteen or seventeen years old—let out a yelp of pain.

"I told you to be still," Hank told him with a pleasant smile on his face.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

_1_

"Good morning, Miss…" Mr. Foster held onto the greeting for several moments, as if hoping his guest would complete the sentence.

Karma didn't respond. She stood at the window in the family room of the largest house in San Alamos, having discarded both her mask and goggles as well as her cape. It was a house of stone, mounted on a base of solid rock, carved directly from a hillside overlooking the small town. This was the house Gerald Peirce—the wealthy businessman who had built this town fifty years ago—past on down to his only child, the beautiful Shauna Peirce, who married an attorney from December named Joseph Foster.

And this man behind her now, the first to see her face, was Joseph Foster. Or so she assumed. From her research back in December, she'd learned of Foster's retirement from service more than a couple decades ago, when he'd moved to San Alamos. Wealthy people could retire young, or so Karma had heard. After all, the rich didn't have to work. They could live solely off their fortune, if they so desired. Apparently the man had no difficulties living off his wife's family fortune, at the expense of the town's people.

Karma narrowed her eyes at what she saw from the window and wondered how the water was distributed about town…if at all.

"Are you even listening to me?"

_Not really. Question is, do you listen to the people you're supposed to serve?_

"I only wish to know your name." Foster came closer. Karma's jaw flexed ever so briefly. Anger at what she saw outside would only make her duty here all the more difficult, so she turned slowly away from the window and glared across the room at the man who had joined her.

A flash of fear shown briefly in his eyes. She saw that he held a glass of water. Her jaw clenched a little tighter. She had his attention, control of the situation, and he seemed to understand. He held the drink in his trembling left hand—he's left handed, the information registering in an instant before her eyes moved on. The surface of the drink rippled as his hand shook. He was short and obese. No surprise there. The wealthy spared no expense in stuffing their faces while lesser citizens could barely scrape together enough to lead a normal life. She wondered how much the girl she'd saved in the general store actually made when business was good.

Karma's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. _Probably doesn't even care about the girl, the fat fuck. Just so long as his precious general store keeps its doors open. Shithole is a magnet for the unsavory._ She brought her arms up and crossed them over her breasts. Her glare burned into him; he flinched and pulled back slightly. Considering he was the first person in town to see her face, she was pleased to see his reaction.

She wondered how close he was to actually wetting himself.

"I…just wanted to thank you for your help at the general store this morning. You've done our humble little town a great service…"

Karma scoffed. "Humble little town," she growled, and snatched the drink from his hand. She downed the water in a three huge gulps and thrust the empty glass back into his hand. "Bullshit."

Foster blinked. "I beg your pardon…"

"You heard me," she quipped and turned away. Again, she found herself looking out the window. She drew a slow breath. "There's a man coming this way. Tall, jaw-length hair. Jet black. Walks with a limp in his left leg. Tan cowboy hat."

"A badge?"

"Star. Who is he?"

Foster shrugged. Either the man was afraid he'd make her mad and wanted her to think he could keep his emotions in check, or he was downright arrogant. Probably both, Karma decided. "Town sheriff. Everyone knows him. Quick with a gun, quicker with his mouth. Name's Raymond Bolenski."

Karma frowned. "Bolenski?" She turned the name over and over in her mind, wondering why it sounded so familiar.

"I don't know. Ray's lived here all his life. His parents came into town thirty years ago. His father took over the sheriff's job when he arrived, and Ray took over when his father was killed in the line of duty about a decade ago."

_Killed in the line of duty?_ Karma wondered who would take out a sheriff in a no-name town this far west of real civilization. It seemed a pretty peaceful town, despite the men she'd dispatched earlier. Those men were undoubtedly not from around here, she mused. But that didn't explain a murder of the sheriff of a peaceful town twelve years ago. Somebody going after the water supply, maybe? That wouldn't really surprise her, depending on how long the Peirce-Foster family had been hoarding the reservoir.

"You'll let him in and bring him to me," Karma said quietly.

The man blinked, and she thought for a minute he might argue. Then, he nodded his head and slipped silently from the room.

Alone, Karma stretched her arms up over her head. Again, she peered about the room, taking in each detail as she contemplated what she would do if things went sour with the sheriff. There seemed to be a lot of terror in this tiny backwater town. People had a tendency to fear aggression whether it saved their asses or not, and there was no doubting that Karma was the most aggressive thing these people had seen in quite a long time.

Two long couches faced each other on opposite sides of a low, oak coffee table, decorated with several crystal sculptures. The carpet was burgundy with an elaborate design of gold flowers and vines. The walls were whitewashed and displayed portraits of various men and women, probably ancestors of the Pierce bloodline. Pink curtains flowed from each of the three windows overlooking the reservoir.

Water wasn't exactly the most abundant resource on the planet. Karma wondered how much Foster charged for its use. She moved away from the window and approached the couch facing away from the door. Karma Saverem lowered herself into the soft cushions and leaned back, arms outstretched along the back of the couch, making herself comfortable. She wiggled her fingers, stretched one long leg out and rested it atop the table in front of her. A small smile played on her lips as she waited.

Her mother had once told her the secret to negotiation. Take the upper hand, no matter what the position might entail. Mostly, for Karma, that meant intimidation. However, the man that Foster was bringing up to her was a lawman, and intimidation would likely cause more harm then good. She decided it would be best to take another path. First, there was the matter of understanding whoever it was she was to negotiate with.

After a time, a single set of footsteps came down the hall toward her and stopped in the doorway. Karma rested a hand on the side of her head momentarily before pushing her fingers through hair, brushing it back and off her face. She bowed her head, listening for him to make a move. He seemed determined to make her wait, however, and though she knew he stood there, observing her, he apparently didn't realize she'd already detected _his _presence. Her tiny smile grew ever so slightly. A fitting advantage. _Let him think he has the upper hand, _her mother had said once, a long time ago. _And then, when he pounces, strike without mercy._ There was power in deception, too. She'd taught herself that much. Mom certainly couldn't deny that.

Or, at least she wouldn't if she were still alive.

The man behind her took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak. Karma smirked to herself. It was time to take the initiative. "Why don't you have a seat, sheriff. There's a few things I think we need to talk about."

Silence. Time crawled to a halt. She pictured his face, bright red with the shock that she seemed so relaxed, so oblivious to the world around her, and yet it was she, not Ray Bolenski, who had seized control when he walked into the room.

Finally, the sheriff cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to stand."

"Suit yourself, sheriff. If you don't mind, I'm rather comfortable right where I am."

The sheriff didn't move from his spot just inside the room. "First thing's first: who are you?"

Karma smiled slightly. "I've been called the Phantom Mistress. In the last town they called me White Shadow. I guess maybe both names suit me." She wiggled her fingers again. Comfortable couch. A glass of water would be nice, though. Oh well. Business first, as always. "And your name is Ray Bolenski. Sheriff of this godforsaken town. Stuck in the middle between your employer and the people he oppresses."

"We're not talking about me right now," Ray said slowly.

"And I'm not here to discuss who I am, either." Her tone was like ice. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands down, leaving her elbows in place. Her head came up ever so slightly. She drew one leg up so that the bottom of her foot rested against the corner of the coffee table. "Truth is, I think I'm being followed. It's my fault those men attacked the girl in the general store."

Silence. She heard the faint sound of the man swallowing a lump in his throat. "I kinda already figured that out," he said quietly.

Karma frowned deeply, staring straight ahead.

He took a step forward. "I need to know who those men are."

"They call themselves the Matadors."

"The Matadors?"

She scowled. "I'm pretty sure that's what I said."

"Okay, okay. Fine. The Matadors. Who are they?"

Karma's head slumped forward. Golden hair fell in waves before her eyes, covering her face. She gritted her teeth tightly as she glared at nothing. Her chest heaved in anger. The Matadors. They were the reason she'd found herself out here. But honestly, that wasn't Ray Bolenski's business. Sheriff or not. She brought her arms down and dug her fingers deep into the belly of her jumpsuit, giving it a tug, stretching the smooth, titanium-weave fabric tighter against her skin. Her anger lasted only a moment, though, before it subsided. She gave her shoulders a tiny shrug, letting the material conform back to the natural shape of her body.

Her hand rolled slowly over the taut, muscular ripples of her abdomen as she calmed herself. What could it hurt if Ray knew something more of the Matadors? She didn't have to tell him anything about herself. But maybe if she told him something of the Matadors, he could better prepare his town to defend against them.

"They're the reason the Phantom Mistress exists," she growled softly, and brought her legs down from the table, sitting up straight.

"And…where did they come from?"

Karma closed her eyes, giving a weak sigh, supporting herself with one arm as the hand of the other pushed her long hair back and out of her face. "I don't know for sure," she said quietly, "but I think they followed me here from the north."

_2_

She spoke only briefly about the Matadors, about how she'd first encountered them in the town of Desperation ten months before. It'd been one hell of a hairy situation, according to her story. Ray listened intently, never moving from his spot just inside the door, eyes fixed on the back of her head. She seemed to be telling the truth. Ray didn't know if she'd have any reason to lie to him.

"They're the shit of the land," she said quietly. "They hit a couple towns pretty hard. Did what I could to stop them, but it seldom amounted to anything. Took out Desperation, Devil's Bluff, May City, Lewiston Town, and several other towns before they reached December. Then they hit that city too."

"I didn't hear about anything about that." Ray ran his fingers through his hair. In fact, as he recalled, rumor had it that the Phantom Mistress was responsible for all the damage.

"I figured I was done with them after that fiasco. Get out while the getting's good, or so they say, right?" The woman snorted. "It's been six weeks, and not a sign of them til today."

Ray thought it was lucky the Phantom Mistress showed up when she did. Otherwise, Ashley Hahl would be dead. The thought of losing a dear friend to those bastards made what this woman did seem an act of heroism. Still, he couldn't discount the fact that her tactics—whatever she had done, no matter how she had accomplished the feat—were frighteningly efficient.

_Flat out crippled them on the spot._

Hank's words. Ray shuddered recalling them.

"They seem to show up wherever I do," she grumbled after a time. "So I figure they're following me."

"In other words, you're a shit magnet." That brought a smile. The corner of his mouth curled up into a half-smile of his own. "So, these guys have been following you around the planet and hitting every single town you make a stop at?"

"Before today, not since December," she replied. "Which means…"

"They lost you."

She nodded. "Or they were distracted."

Ray considered her story for a time, unmoving as he settled his gaze on the wall. He bit his lower lip, thinking about what Hank had told him about this woman. It wasn't much, but it was enough to scare the hell out of him.

Good thing he was a brave son of a bitch.

Hank had told him that, too. "Something was different about it today, wasn't it?"

She blinked and spun about on her hip to glare at him from the corner of her left eye. Half of her face was revealed to him as blonde hair flew back and off her cheek and spilled over her right shoulder. He saw the silky smooth pale skin of her face, her slender, luscious neckline, the piercingly dangerous gleam in that one emerald eye as she glowered up at him.

Ray swallowed, but not because he was intimidated by the heat of her anger. As harsh as her glare was, he found everything about her to be devastatingly attractive.

_That_ was what he found intimidating.

He fought to keep his voice level as he watched her, though his heart was racing inside him. "Please. You gotta tell me the truth. At least about them." Ray held his arms out and let them fall with a loud slap against his thighs. "I can't help you if you don't help me."

The woman closed her eyes and turned so that he was watching the back of her head again. That much helped to slow his heart rate…for the time being. "These guys were different," she explained, her voice low. "They weren't wearing any of the same things that the Matadors do."

Ray frowned at that. "What do they usually wear?"

"Typically black and armed with six-shooters. And usually they're looking for me."

"Today they didn't even act like you were there until it was too late for them."

She gave him a heated glare. "Think I didn't notice that? God gave you ears didn't he? Pay attention to what I'm saying!"

He wasn't quite sure what she was angry with him for. He'd just made an observation, based on what Ashley had told him. The men she'd taken out hadn't been willing to talk about the basics. They'd simply ignored him.

Obviously they hadn't been frightened of him. He was unworthy of their attention.

_Flat out crippled them on the spot._

Ray drew a slow breath. Fear was certainly a useful tool. "Think you could get them to answer a few questions?"

_3_

Karma considered his question. She knew a couple things. First off, she didn't like how this man approached her, unafraid. If there was one thing about Karma Saverem, when she was in the frame of mind that had earned her the alias "Phantom Mistress," it was that she enjoyed how it felt to be feared. She enjoyed having the upper hand.

It wasn't the same with Ray Bolenski. She didn't know much about him, only what little she had gathered from their meeting, along with Foster's reaction to his involvement. He hadn't said anything verbal against San Alamos's young sheriff, but Karma had a keen sense for human emotion. She knew without a doubt that Joseph Foster wasn't fond of Ray. Why that was didn't matter, only that it did, and she had used that knowledge against him, to gain the upper hand.

With it, came Ray Bolenski. Now, potentially, she had something to use against both the sheriff and the town's tyrannical benefactor, if it came to it. But first she needed the upper hand in handling the sheriff. It wasn't going to be easy, because this man didn't seem to fear her.

Meaning she was going to have to find another way to handle the man with the badge.

Secondly, she knew there was nothing to gain by speaking to the patsies who claimed they were Matador material. The guys she had cut down…shit, they weren't _really_ Matadors. Real Matadors liked to lay low and strike when they were least expected. Real Matadors would have been somewhat of a challenge. _They _would have been able to fight back.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. "A few questions? How could I _possibly_ benefit from facing my enemy one more time to ask them a few questions for a backwater town I don't give a damn about and a piss-poor sheriff I have no reason to trust?"

Ray watched her for a moment, emotionless. She waited for an answer he couldn't give her.

"Fucking typical," she grumbled after a time, and started toward the window. "Tell you what, sheriff. I'm leaving this godforsaken shithole the moment I get a chance. I think once I'm gone the Matadors will leave you be." She watched the sparkling waters of the reservoir below as the wind sent small ripples across the surface. Twin suns shimmered up at her, reflected in the waves.

"And if they don't?"

She spun about, fists clenched. In several, long strides, she found herself within an arm's reach of him and snatched his wrist. "You just might have to do your fucking job, then, won't you?" she sneered.

He blinked. For a moment she thought that had never occurred to him, but then she saw the flash of pain in his eyes. She felt a twinge of guilt, but didn't understand why.

And then it hit her. This man had lost his father in the line of duty.

She remembered wondering how a sheriff could possibly get himself killed in the line of duty out here, in a backwater town where even the simplest happenings must seem big news. This thing with the Matadors, and herself, was probably the biggest thing to happen in San Alamos since the day this man's father had lost his badge and his life.

Karma swallowed and released his arm. "Listen to me. I'm pretty sure the Matadors will leave you be if I just go on my way." She started to turn away. "Now, if you don't mind, there's a few things I want to do before…"

It was Ray's turn to snatch her arm.

"Fine. We'll do this the hard way." He drew a slow breath and fixed her with his most demanding stare. His grey eyes were as intense as any she had seen in a long time. She found she couldn't look away. They were just another reason she found herself disliking the young sheriff. They were distracting. And irritating. And compelling. And…

He slapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists before she could blink.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

_1_

"Here's the deal," Ray said in a low voice, his face inches from hers. Her eyes were wide, her shock evident. His powerful hand was still wrapped about the chain of the cuffs attached to her wrists. "You find out where those bastards came from. Get it done, I don't care how. But when you do, I'll let you go on your way."

Karma stared at him. Her arms shook with rage, hands balled into tight fists. The man had made a mistake. She felt it in her bones. Her heart pounded with the tense hate for what he had done to her. Every muscle in her body tensed, prepared to strike. She wanted to, for what he had done to her. The hate was strong enough. Pure desire to be free of these binds surged through her. All it would take was mere thought, and then a single, lightning-quick action. The sheriff didn't understand. No one could understand her abilities. No one living.

"Well, are we gonna do this or not?" he asked.

Somehow, Karma couldn't bring herself to do what she knew she could. Her anger, however strong the desire, was not directed at the man before her. She understood his actions, rash as they were. This was a man who was lost in his troubles, caught unaware. She could see it in his eyes. The people of this town were his own responsibility, and like it or not, she knew he would do whatever he could to see to their safety. She closed her eyes, drawing several deep breaths to soothe herself, easing the anger back, though she was ready to unleash it in an instant.

Ray was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The people were defenseless, and as far as she could tell, Foster didn't do a thing about it. It wouldn't be hard, she knew. All he had to do was supply the sheriff with the means. Little bastard didn't even have to get his hands dirty. But no, that would never work. It would require an effort, and Karma didn't think Joseph Foster had the will.

"One condition," she said finally, turning her eyes up to his.

He was already reaching for his key. "Done."

Karma blinked. She wondered just who this strange man was. She hadn't told him what she wanted in return, and already he was willing to do what he could to strike a bargain.

"Your father was Kyle Bolenski, wasn't he?"

He paused. "How the hell do you know that?"

She smiled grimly and held up her wrists. "Just take these damn things off and I'll go with you. After that, you and me are going to be in for a real long talk, don't you think, sheriff?"

_2_

Karma, deciding to forgo the mask and goggles, had put on her fedora and cape before she followed Ray down the hillside where Gerald Pierce had built his splendid manor. From here, to the north, she could see a fenced area just outside town where a couple dozen headstones marked the final resting place of some of San Alamos's fallen citizens. She said nothing of the eyes that dwelt on her from that grisly realm, and instead focused her attention on the deed he was asking of her. The man watching her from the graveyard would make himself known sooner or later.

If he didn't know Karma knew about him, that could be her advantage. The thought brought a small smirk to her lips, but she said nothing to Ray as she followed him toward the limestone building near the center of town.

It had occurred to her that this town had no fountain, whereas all the other towns between here and December had each had at least one in the center of town. A group of citizens were still gathered about the mass of motorcycles that the Matadors had driven into town. Karma took a moment during their walk to be certain her own had been untouched. It still sat along the side the general store, where she had left it. Nobody would dare to mess with her belongings, knowing what she had done to the men who had invaded their home.

"You really did a number on those bastards," Ray said after a time. "This town is deeply in your debt."

Karma smirked at the irony of it all. "And so you cuff me to make me do your bidding." For a moment, nothing was said. She decided the silence would get nothing done. She plucked a strand of long, blonde hair from her face. "Real slick, buddy."

Ray shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"You're only one. Exactly how do you anticipate to defend these people against men like that? They may have followed me here, and whether that's true or not, there are bound to be more. I assure you there are."

"True enough."

"One thing's for sure, you've got guts. After all, you handcuffed the Phantom Mistress."

"And you're sure it wasn't an act of desperation?"

"Perhaps." Karma gave a little shrug. "I suppose that's possible. But you don't strike me as a desperate man. You seem more like a man who knows his limits."

"Limits? You really don't know the half of it."

"Maybe I understand more than you think."

They stepped out onto the main road, which divided the town in two. Men were carting off injured Matadors on stretchers, toward Town Hall. Karma watched for several moments before deciding the ones who would do her the most good were already inside. Not that any of them would do much good at all. She was pretty sure that the real threat was nowhere near San Alamos.

Or, at least, nowhere clearly visible.

But then why did she feel as if there were eyes upon her—dangerous, piercingly violent eyes—everywhere she went? Who was the man standing in the graveyard to the north, watching her? Or, Karma realized, maybe he was simply keeping his eyes on the Pierce estate. As comfortable as she felt walking down the street, she knew from experience that her journeys could turn treacherous at any possible moment. Usually she wasn't the one who suffered as a result. Desperation, the first town she'd visited following her departure from New Hope barely a year before, had taught her that much.

Karma peered up the rough, limestone walls to the red, slate roof overhead as they approached the building. It seemed to be quite a building, wide and tall, two main floors and probably a pretty decent attic for storage. There were few windows, and those were boarded. The front door was intact, but in bad need of a fresh coat of paint.

As the sheriff reached out to push the door open, Karma's head jerked to the right. Her eyes narrowed at the black figure standing just outside the general store, beneath the shade provided by the wooden overhand. A tall man, she realized, leaning on a double-barreled shotgun. His flaming-red hair was cropped into short spikes. He wore black shades, his face partially hidden behind the oversized collar of his black, leather coat.

He was puffing on a cigarette…watching her.

Karma glared back. Now _this _was what she expected of the Matadors. If that was what he was, of course. Karma was about seventy-five percent sure. This is what the Matadors were good at: reconnaissance.

"What is it?" Ray asked, pushing the door open a crack before seeing her hesitation.

"Nothing."

_Nothing I can't handle,_ she added silently, and gestured for him to continue on. Ray simply shrugged and pushed the door open.

_3_

Hank rose to his full height and dumped the bloodied surgical gloves into the bucket beside the patient's bed. He gave a slow shake of his head as made a last-second inspection of the man's dressings, tightly wrapped around the injuries to his left upper arm and wrist.

Two separate blades, each cut made in practically the same instant. Or so he theorized. She's swiped his upper arm with the blade in her right hand, an upward slash that had cut nearly clean to the bone. His wrist had sustained relatively light damage, considering the woman's abilities. She'd faced him for only an instant, and dispatched him effortlessly.

_Just enough damage to the wrist, _Hank thought grimly as he washed his hands, _to cause him to drop his weapon._ The slash in his upper arm had been to make sure he wouldn't retrieve the gun and fire a bullet into the back of her head as she moved on to her next target. It had probably taken the Phantom Mistress great deal of skill to avoid severing the necessary tendons of the boy's hand, if that was truly her intention. He knew it couldn't have occurred unintentionally, considering how many times she had attacked in a similar manner against so many other men.

Hank marveled at her grim talents as he called for the next patient.

"Actually, that's the last one," a silky smooth voice, richly feminine, purred. He blinked at the curvaceous figure, clad in a skintight, white jumpsuit, waves of golden hair flowing about her shoulders. The Phantom Mistress glared at the young man lying immobilized on the bed as she glided effortlessly into the room.

"That's right," he said as he watched back. "Only eleven incapacitated would-be rapists and murderers."

She fixed him with a somber stare, and spoke while crossing her arms under her breasts. "Oh, they may well be rapists and murderers without having to touch the girl."

Silence consumed them as the two faced off. Ray stood behind the young woman, waiting patiently. Hank drew a slow breath and took a step forward, and without warning reached out to place a hand on each of her shoulders, fixing her with a meaningful stare. So this was the Phantom Mistress, young as she may be; he'd pictured her to be so much older. And where was the sinister sneer everyone was always talking about?

She didn't push away, as he thought she might. Instead, she stood frozen, as if surprised to be touched in such an intimate manner. Hank gave her his most sincere smile. "Ashley," he whispered, the name little more than a breath on his lips. "We all owe you a great deal. No matter who you are. We owe so much I doubt the debt will ever be paid. You have my deepest gratitude." And then, without warning, the doctor pulled her to his chest and gave her a big hug.

"Ah, uh…what are you doing?" she mumbled into his shoulder.

He smiled as he parted from her, hands again clutching her shoulders as he grinned. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I don't know about anyone else, but that never mattered to me. You're a hero in my book."

She pushed him away. "You're a doctor all right," she grumbled. Her cheeks were tinted red as she looked to the floor, allowing her flowing mane of blonde hair to mask her suddenly shy countenance. "Just keep your hands off for the time being."

Hank grinned. "Yes ma'am."

Ray finally stepped up beside the Phantom Mistress. He eyed the young man on the bed, the one Hank had only just finished patching up. "They're called Matadors," he said quietly, shifting his gaze back up to the doctor. "I think we have a pretty big problem on our hands."

"Yes, I think you're right. But I don't think these boys are the real problem."

The Phantom Mistress blinked, brushing the hair out of her face so that she could see him clearly. From the looks of her, Hank Finney knew she was something special. There was no malice in those sparkling green eyes, no hate etched into her young, flawless features. Momentarily, there was only uncertainty. Mostly, there was distrust, as though she had been plagued all her life by pain and deception. Something in her past haunted the poor girl.

This was not a woman he would think capable of the terrible atrocities associated with the Phantom Mistress. This was a woman lost, a woman searching to find her way in life.

He'd only known her briefly. The first time he'd seen her was immediately after he'd arrived on the scene at the general store. She'd left only a few minutes after, having refused to offer her real name, but somehow, he felt connected to her, as if he'd known her all his life, and seen the terror, and shared in her agonies and dreams. As her successes were few and far between, he somehow sensed that she soared above and beyond the heavens themselves when the Good Lord saw fit to bless her with kindness.

Perhaps that was how she felt now, face to face with a man she couldn't possibly know, and yet here he was, showing her rare kindness. Hank's heart swelled with pride realizing the possibility that he could help her to shed some of her troubles, or at least help her to feel welcome in San Alamos. Maybe, after all, that was all she really needed. Friendship, and kindness. A place to rest her head.

"And what brings you two back to the raging inferno?" Hank asked, a big grin on his face. The uncertainty in the girl's face remained, but the doctor didn't comment.

Ray drew a slow breath. "Our friend here is going to have a little discussion with a few of your patients," he said. "We just want to see if we can figure out a few more things about these guys. If there are more coming our way."

"Yes. But I don't think you'll get much from the boys here."

"Couldn't hurt to try." Ray turned his attention over to the young woman, but she wasn't paying attention anymore. Her eyes had moved down to the young man on the bed, who stared back at her in wide-eyed fear.

_4_

Karma inched closer to the frightened boy. He couldn't have been any older than the one she had interrogated after the general store fight. She knew she must look strikingly familiar to him, dressed in white with her purple cape and fedora, and that shiny, blonde hair that spilled over her slender shoulders. Her face had been revealed, but likely he still saw her for her hair and dress. Nearing the bed at his right side, and watching him tremble all the more as she drew closer, she felt her own breath growing steady and deep as her hatred began to percolate deep within her veins.

She brought her hands up, gripping the hilts of both knives and they slid out of her sleeves, wrenching them free in a rush as she planted one knee on his good arm, putting the full of her weight into it—a cry of pain echoed through the long room, causing unconscious men in beds down the way to shuffle in their places—and put the blade of one knife threateningly against his throat.

"Who is the Watchman?" she hissed as she brought her face close.

The boy's eyes were wide as he watched up at her, not daring to move. She had him at her mercy. One motion with her wrist, and she would spill his lifeblood. Not that she would do it, but if she had him believing she would, she could manipulate him.

Hank started forward. "Now just one damn minute…" He stopped when Ray grabbed his arm. Hank, who had never shown much anger in all his time as a doctor, a happy-go-lucky, gentle man with a strong abhorrence of unprovoked violence, shifted his eyes to the sheriff. "Just what are you doing? This sort of interrogation can't go on in Town Hall! I demand you put an end to it immediately."

"Just take a deep breath, Hank. Let her handle this." Ray kept hold of his arm, lowering his voice as he leaned forward. "Trust me. I want to see where this is going."

"Ray…"

"I said trust me." Ray held up his hand, ending the argument.

Karma was losing her patience with the silent Matador below her. Slowly, she brought her other knife up, letting the blade reflect the sunlight from the lone window into the Matador's eyes. He squinted. "See this? This knife is pretty damn sharp." She leaned her face closer. "Cuts quick and deep. And it's hungry for flesh." She leaned even closer. "Your flesh."

The man squirmed and squealed, "No!"

"Oh yes," the young woman whispered. She drew the knife quickly along his cheek, nicking his flesh. He let out a yelp as several small driblets of blood swelled from the small scratch.

"Hey!" Hank shouted. "You'll stop that this instant!"

Karma ignored him. "Now you'll answer me?"

"What! Leave me alone!" the young man cried. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes.

"The Watchman," she hissed, and made an identical cut on his other cheek. The man yelled out again. "His name?" she demanded. Her eyes were wild with rage. At least, that was how she wanted him to see her.

"Eric! Eric the Watchman!" he howled. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, soaking his pillow. Ray stood in silence, watching. Hank, red-faced, glared at the girl torturing his patient. Karma simply didn't care. Hank Finney was no challenge for her. The sheriff was no challenge, not really. She focused her attention, glaring down at the man below her, flicking his wrist so that the dagger in her left hand was sheathed into the same sleeve. "Eric the Watchman…"

Sobbing silently to himself, he repeated the name one more time.

Karma, chest heaving with anger, closed her eyes and finally pushed herself away.

"Eric the Watchman," she said, shifting her eyes to the sheriff and his doctor friend. She moved slowly away from the man on the bed and returned the other knife to its sheath. The hilt slid down into her sleeve slowly. "You know the name?"

Raymond Bolenski drew a slow breath and fixed her with a meaningful stare. "Yes, I do."

"And?"

"You ever heard of the Gung-Ho Guns?"


End file.
